


Mistletoe Kisses

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Smut, F/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe it would just be better if you stayed the night,"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [channyfaith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/channyfaith/gifts).



> Once upon a time (okay, a year ago), I posted a little drabble. About a month-ish ago, there was an express desire amongst a certain group of giggly girls that they wouldn't mind some holiday smut. Rating subject to change. Sorry I can't get to the other chapters, it's like 3am and I'm so tired, but I wanted to put *something* up to tide you guys over.
> 
> Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.

"You don't have to stay, Molly."

 

Molly jumped in surprise at how close Sherlock's voice was, spinning around to face him. He raised an eyebrow, amused.

 

"It's - ah, it's fine. I mean, I wouldn't want you to clean up all-" she waved a hand around the flat, which had paper plates and wine glasses scattered about on all surfaces, "-this by yourself."

 

She picked a plate off of the desk by the windows, still half full with food cut up into small pieces. No doubt the plate John and Mary used for their little girl Mina. The youngest guest of the 221B party had been waddling all over Sherlock's flat all night, it was a miracle that the married couple had managed to get her to sit down to eat at all.

 

"Still," Sherlock said in a futile attempt at protesting. He picked up the two empty plates that had been beside that one, "You could have left with everyone else. Don't you have plans for tomorrow?"

 

That's right, Molly thought to herself. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. That was the entire point of the party at Sherlock's place, spending time with everyone. That was why everyone else was gone. Mrs. Hudson was off to her sister's in the morning. Lestrade was on vacation with the missus, to Dorset again (or was Sussex?) And of course, John and Mary needed as much sleep as they could get before spending Christmas day with their kid. And she... well. She would be at her own flat, watching as many Christmas specials that one could fit into a day.

 

"I don't mind Sherlock. Really," she insisted, offering a smile. She held up Mina's plate, "Are you wanting the leftovers?"

 

"I'll pass," the detective said, "Don't know how much Minnie's slobbered on that."

 

Molly clicked her tongue, hitting his arm playfully as he passed her to pick up a discarded fork left on the coffee table, "Now Sherlock, she does not slobber. She's four, for heaven's sake."

 

Sherlock chuckled. Feeling a rush of warmth from the genuine amusement of the laugh, Molly couldn't help but giggle along. She tucked two empty plates underneath Mina's, all the while commenting, "She's getting so big,"

 

She heard a hum of agreement behind her, and decided to go on, "She's looking an awful lot like John, you notice? More so every day I see her,"

 

"She doesn't have the ears, though. Thank god,"

 

Molly laughed as she moved towards the kitchen, "Sherlock, you can't say that!"

 

"Can't I?" he smirked, joining her side as he placed a handful of glasses in the sink. She followed his cue with the plates she'd collected. Molly brushed her hands off, and was about to reply, when the lights flickered, and a loud gust of wind blew outside 221B.

 

"My," Molly murmured, looking back into the living room, out the window as snow hurtled past. She stepped away from the sink, hugging her arms to her chest. She leaned on the open door frame, frowning a little.

 

"Storm'll be a bother when you go home," Sherlock pointed out. He moved into the living room, double checking to see if they'd picked everything up. As he did, he slipped his suit jacket off, draping it over the back of one of the wooden chairs by the desk.

 

"Yeah..." the pathologist sighed, turning so that her back rested against the wall. She blew her hair out of her face, leaning her head back.

 

There was mistletoe on the ceiling.

 

She couldn't help but giggle. Despite the low volume, Sherlock looked over at her, brow furrowed, "What?"

 

"Nothing," Molly said, still getting over her small chuckling fit.

 

"Obviously not nothing," Sherlock said, stepping towards her. Her giggle sputtered back to life when he stepped directly in front of her.

 

"Nothing, n-no, it's nothing," she insisted, waving her hands, "Nothing, it's just... mistletoe,"

 

She pointed and Sherlock looked up.

 

"Ah," he said. He glanced down again, and ever so charmingly said, "Mistletoe is a parasite,"

 

"Ba humbug," Molly teased, but Sherlock was going on a tangent.

 

"Literally. Mistletoe latch onto other plants to steal their energy, typically trees, especially during the winter. I don't see how anyone could consider draining another biotic organism romantic-"

 

Molly grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and, going up on her tiptoes, managed to catch his bottom lip with her own. He made a noise of surprise against her lips, but after a moment, angled his head down to kiss her properly, his hands moving to her hips to keep her steady. When she finally pulled away, she had a moment of uncertainty, second guessing her rash decision. But when she caught the look in his eye, she bit her lip, trying to stop herself from beaming outright. She just kissed Sherlock Holmes.

 

"Well, we all do silly things," she offered as an explanation.

 

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, before lifting his eyebrows and replying, "Yes. They do, don't they?"

 

The pathologist swallowed slowly, and slowly lowered herself back onto her feet. She smoothed out the wrinkles she'd caused in his shirt.

 

"Well," she said, unable to stop her voice from getting high pitched in her giddiness, "I better... get going. It's late,"

 

"It is," Sherlock confirmed, not letting go of her quite yet.

 

She bit her lip again, and went on, "Yes. The storm will be hard to manage through,"

 

"Impossible, I reckon," he agreed.

 

"And getting a cab at this late hour-"

 

"It would be a miracle if you could-"

 

"On Christmas Day too-!"

 

"Maybe it would just be better if you stayed the night," Sherlock finished.

 

Molly blew air out from between her lips, and said, "Well, if you insist."

 

"I do."

 

"Good."


	2. Chapter Two

_\- - -_

_"Maybe it would just be better if you stayed the night," Sherlock finished._

_Molly blew air out from between her lips, and said, “Well, if you insist.”_

_"I do."_

_"Good."_

_\- - -_

 

The best thing about tall men, Molly decided, was that they could be _everywhere_. One moment, she was grasping the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. Then, seconds later (or minutes? What time was it?) his mouth was on her neck, his hand pinning her wrists, the other hand grasping her thigh, his chest against hers, his groin suddenly insistent upon hers. Compliant to his tugging, Molly's leg moved up, her knee on his hip. Sherlock groaned, and Molly turned her head to feel the sound against her lips. She was surprised at the feeling of Sherlock's mouth. She'd always imagined he'd have soft lips. A tongue that fucked, a mouth that bruised, but lips that caressed. That was the fantasy of every mouth she wanted to kiss, though. His lips were rough, and dry, despite the fact that her tongue had run over them as she tried to clash against his.

 

Both of Sherlock's hands dropped to her thighs, tugging her up. Molly let out a surprised squeak as she was pushed up against the wall, immediately clinging to Sherlock. Her hands slid down from his shoulders, grasping at his shirt, and she felt the fabric tense and pop as the top two buttons gave way. She let out a muffled sound in attempt to apologize, but Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, pushing his body flush against hers. She moved her hands, having no room for her arms, sliding up his back, digging at his shoulders.

 

"My hair, my _hair_ ," Sherlock muttered suddenly, his mouth ducking to her neck. Molly's eyes snapped open as she gasped in surprise. If he noticed, the detective seemed to ignore her shock. She blinked, and turned her cheek to press against his as she tried to remember how breathing normally worked. Hesitantly, she let her hand move into his curls, shuffling through the knots she found. Sherlock grunted as he were displeased, and started sucking against the hollow of her collarbone. The action pushed her head back, her neck stretching just a little uncomfortably. Molly huffed, and tugged his head back so she could kiss him. His mouth opening compliantly to her urgency, her mouth swallowing the sound of his groan. Oh god, she was kissing Sherlock Holmes, she was being held by Sherlock Holmes, and above all, she was the one that made Sherlock Holmes hard.

 

"Sherlock-" her words were cut off when his mouth covered hers again, his teeth catching on her bottom lip. She whimpered at the sensation, and tried again, "Sherlock-"

 

"Bedroom?" Sherlock nearly well read her mind, his voice muffled by her mouth, "That would be convenient."

 

He pulled his head back to look at her properly, and she got a good look at him. Hair mussed, eyes blown wide, lips swollen red. God, his lips always seemed so pale, much like the rest of him. Yet here he was, cheeks tinged with pink, lips red, all dashed in the illumination of his flat, and the flickering fire still dancing in the fireplace.

 

"The fire," Molly blurted, "You'll have to put it out."

 

"I can take care of it," he promised her.

 

"Well...o-ok."

 

She glanced down between them, at her legs wrapped around his waist, then looked back up with an almost embarrassed look. If anything, Sherlock's face turned a darker red, and he hastily set her back on her feet.

 

"Bedroom's that way," he gestured, "I'll be right there."

 

Molly swallowed, her throat feeling a little thin all of a sudden, and nodded. After a moment of pausing, waiting until the silence stretched into something awkward, they both turned different ways. Sherlock made his way to the center of his living room, while Molly navigated around the kitchen island. She paused at the hallway, turning around as Sherlock crouched next to the fire, reaching for the fire poker. Nervously, she pulled her lips in, worrying her teeth over the bottom one.

 

Finally, her hand leapt out to stop him as she called out, "Wait!"

 

Sherlock looked up, eyebrows lifted innocently. He got to his feet, and she was struck by the opaque of his eyes, stark silver with the flame reflecting in them. When he didn't speak, she realized he was waiting for her, and stumbled.

 

"Oh, um, I just meant, we can just... stay there. By the fire," Molly pinched her mouth, and looked down at her feet, "I mean, it's fine, it kind of - talking about it like this, it sort of ruins the mood, doesn't it, yeah it does, I'll just, bedroom, right-"

 

"Molly," Sherlock spoke softly, the inflection of a question touching the statement.

 

She looked up, mouth opening softly to explain herself uselessly, "It's... just a thing, isn't it? Sex by the fireplace, strawberries with chocolate-"

 

"The carpet's not _that_ comfortable, really," he cut in.

 

"It's a fantasy!" she blurted, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip slowly curling up, "A fantasy?"

 

"Oh, no, it- doesn't matter," she groaned, covering her face, "I ruined the mood, it's ridiculous, it's-"

 

"Molly, do stop rambling."

 

She peeked through her fingers, to see Sherlock making his way towards her. He stopped in front of her, just far enough that he could reach out for her. After a moment, he did, taking both her elbows and drawing her closer. She timidly hid her face again, which earned her a warm huff of laughter from Sherlock. His hands slid up her arms, curling around her wrists as he slowly tugged her hands from her face.

 

"Close the fire screen, I'll be a moment," and with that, he leaned in and kissed her. It was light, and soft. It was the first kiss Sherlock had actually initiated that night, Molly realized. She had been close and nearly insistent, noses bumping and tongues swiping, pulling herself up to him, pulling him to her, pulling, _pulling_. He leaned down to kiss her, one hand moving from her wrist to her cheek, his chin jutting out enough that their noses barely touched at all. It was awkward, yes, but sweet really, like a boy kissing you on your doorstep after a date. He was careful where she was reckless and it was- surprising. She wanted to think it was unnerving, the sudden turn of tables. How soft spoken he'd been all night, compliant and... sweet. That was the word she kept going back to. Sweet. Like candy, like honey. Like when he wanted something from her.

 

Sherlock pulled away, his eyes flickering from one of her eyes to the other, and then he moved past her, going down the hallway. She stopped him with a hand on his elbow. He paused, turning to look at her, but she didn't look at him for a moment.

 

"What..." she cleared her throat, shaking her head, before looking at him, "What do you need?"

 

There was a moment of silence, as if time had gone away. Then, in the distance, she could hear bells. Big Ben was singing midnight's. Sherlock reached forwards, his hand on her cheek again as he looked at her eyes.

 

"You."

 

Molly swallowed. She wanted to keep looking for the truth, find the sudden twitch that would give away his bluff, but his gaze became so intense that she couldn't help it when her eyes flickered behind him, the floor, god anywhere but that burning stare that could melt her straight into the ground. Sherlock's hand curled, his fingers dipping underneath her chin to tip her gaze up again. Seeming to have realized his mistake of insisting, his face softened, trying to express his sincerity.

 

She suddenly understood why the quantity of love poems was infinite. For the same reasons humanity looked at the stars for so long, even when it was absolutely positive it knew everything about the sky above. Eventually, someone figured out that the sky went on forever, and suddenly there were so many possibilities for knowledge. Perhaps the poets knew that, even as they wrote out the same cliches, eventually, someone would tweak just the right word, and the concept of love would bloom into new possibilities. Intimacy burned like a fiery star, and Sherlock exuded possibility.

 

Her hand found the back of his neck, and she kissed him again, quick and full in the way Sherlock's behavior opposed. His arms circled her waist, pulling her onto her toes. But he didn't let it last, opting to pull back.

 

"Close the fire screen," he repeated, before disappearing down the hallway. Molly watched him for a moment, before going to do as he said, making sure the fire was still going. Content with it, and looking to pass the time before Sherlock returned, she pushed the armchairs and coffee table back, making room on the floor. The obnoxiously loud scrape of the legs against thin carpet made her wince, suddenly all too aware of the landlady that was sleeping in the flat below. Hastily, she crossed the room and locked the door. She felt a bit stupid, awkwardly waving her arms at the door in case it suddenly decided to fly open despite her best attempts. But Mrs. Hudson didn't storm through, and Molly was still standing alone in the middle of the living room at 221B.

 

Molly breathed slowly, in and out. Every nerve of her body made their nanosecond report. I exist, I exist, I exist, by the way. Her heart hammered, her veins pounded. She was spending the night in 221B... and she was going to spend it right.

 

She reached up, pulling her loose hair over her left shoulder so it wouldn't get in the way. Finding the zipper of her dress was a difficult search, but she'd mastered the certain arm twist long ago, back when plenty of pimples speckled her face. Her fingers finally clasped the zipper, and tugged down. Once undone, Molly let the dress fall. She shucked her underwear, kicking all her clothes into a pile beside Sherlock's chair. Molly was just about to unclasp her strapless bra when there was a quiet putter behind her.

 

Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blankets bundled underneath his arms. He looked as if he'd robbed a bloody linen store. She could have laughed, if not for the way his eyes had narrowed, that same intense stare from before keeping her frozen. The tableau stretched on for a long time, and it wasn't until Sherlock began walking forwards that Molly dared to breathe. She pulled her hand back, and deftly undid the clasp of the bra. It tumbled down to the ground, and she nudged it aside like she did with the rest of her clothing.

 

The response was unbelievable.

 

"Uncomfortable carpet," Sherlock said. Molly looked at him in surprise as he continued on, "The carpet would be uncomfortable, I figured this would be-"

 

What was she expecting - the quivering hands of a teenager, the stammer of the inexperienced? Breasts would make a poker face slip, certainly, but this wasn't a game. Sherlock genuinely wanted this, and he wasn't going in without a clue as to what was going to happen. She was the one that kept pushing, trying to find the catch to this absolutely darling night. They were both adults.

 

He was not the same man that had walked into her morgue all those years ago.

 

Molly went to help him unfold his pile of blankets. Together, they made a little nest of a bed in front of the fireplace.

 

"Condom?" she asked as he sat down in his chair, beginning to unbutton his cuffs, the buttons down his shirt. Sherlock's answer was to pull one out of his pocket, and toss it lightly over. Molly gave a small giggle before setting it down and moving over to kneel in front of him, "May I?"

 

He hesitated, fingers still hovering over the buttons. After a moment, he nodded. She slipped her hands underneath his, sliding off each button at a much slower pace than he bothered with. She could feel the way his breath hiccuped as his chest moved against her fingers, see without looking that his eyes had gone dark. Once finished, Molly pressed her palms against his stomach, sliding back to his sides to untuck the shirt from his trousers. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders back, letting the shirt slide onto the chair.

 

Once free, his hand moved to take the tip of her chin, leaning and pulling until they were kissing again. His kisses really were something, she mused, poking his bottom lip with her tongue to deepen the kiss. He complied to her nagging, his mouth opening to slot closer to hers.

 

At some point amidst the lazy make-out session, Molly had moved back, making room for Sherlock to kneel in front of her. She wouldn't have realized if not for his hands taking her bare hips. Molly sighed, her jaw going lax as his fingers found their grip, curving into her flesh, nails pinching just so. Ducking his head, Sherlock's lips found a wondrous spot on her neck to be idle on. His knees bumped against hers as he shuffled closer.

 

The fire crackling made Molly jump slightly, her hands leaping up to curl into fists in front of her chest. She'd forgotten all about the fire. For a moment, as long as a single musical note hovering into silence, she'd genuinely believed nothing else existed beyond the warmth she sat on and the look of want on Sherlock's face. When her gaze met his again, he gave an amused smile. That smirk tasted absolutely _incredible_.

 

Molly's hands relaxed. Giving another small sigh, she flattened her palms against his chest. Lazily, she let them slide up, over his shoulders, letting her arms extend past before curling back. Her fingers tangled in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in the way that made Sherlock keen. His hand slid up fast, as if to reach for her face, but stopped when it bumped clumsily against her breast.

 

Their mouths froze against each other's, breathing slowly against lips.

 

Carefully, Sherlock's fingers sculpted themselves around her curves. His thumb pressed her nipple, looking for a reaction from her. She didn't move, or gasp sharply, or moan. Instead, she opened her eyes, finding Sherlock's gaze already steady on her. He lifted her breast, testing the weight of it in his palm. His mouth opened, not in a breathy groan, but transforming into a mischievous smirk. With only the boyish grin as warning, he let her boob go, skin and fat jiggling as it fell back into place.

 

Sherlock, in all the glory of his two year old maturity, snorted at the sound. Molly's fast smile dropped in disbelief, then she burst out laughing.

 

"Blockhead!" she chided, squeezing her arms around his neck. He laughed along, his arms hugging her waist in return. Quickly, as if to make up for his foolishness, kissed along her shoulder up to her neck.

 

"I actually can't believe you did that, that was so-s-so-!" she couldn't stop laughing long enough to continue scolding him. She pulled her arms back, tugging his ears as her hands passed. It threw him off balanced, tumbling forwards. Stuck underneath, the best Molly could do was move her legs.

 

They tumbled onto the blankets, Sherlock over Molly as they attempted to kiss through their giggles. Finding it instinctive, Molly wiggled underneath him to get her legs sorted out properly, and wrapped them around his hips.

 

Sherlock made a noise she couldn't quite identify, his teeth baring themselves against her cheek as he hissed out her name, "Molly..."

 

"Mm hm?" she gasped back, running her fingers along his spine over and over, pushing down until she could feel the bumps of his vertebra poking out underneath.

 

He lowered himself against her, still murmuring her name. Sherlock wasn't asking a question, she realized, but simply chanting it. Over and over, teaching her how her name felt against the skin of her jaw.

 

She was aware once again of how petite she was compared him. Now, Molly had a type, like most everyone. She liked her men lean, and didn't mind if that meant getting knobby elbows to her sides. Arnold Schwarzenegger was a bit much, really.

 

But god was Sherlock ever fit. There really was a lot more going on under that paper thin suit than anyone knew. As his arm circled her shoulders, pulling her closer, she couldn't help reaching out in disbelief, touching his chest. Wasn't he something? Like a bloody boxer. A lightweight boxer, granted, but _still_.

 

Tall and muscular and just so bloody fit, it really was a Christmas miracle.

 

"Molly," he murmured again. She sighed, embarrassingly enough in hindsight, quite dreamily at the sound of it. His hand found her thigh, and she continued her breathy sighing, like a fairytale princess awakening.

 

"Oh Molly do stop thinking. It's rather ruining the mood," Sherlock continued on brashly. His hand pushed her left leg off, and he shifted onto his hip. Molly was pulled along with him, settling on her side as he kissed any protests she might have had away. She still pouted at the scolding, and in her silence took her hand away. It curled into a small fist in her cleavage. Sherlock's arm slid sideways on her back, fingernails scratching lightly against her spine as his other hand settled on her hip. He pulled away from the kiss suddenly, meeting her eyes.

 

"Would you like me to-?" he asked, tracing a small circle around her hip bone.

 

"Well, it's up to you-"

 

"I don't care either way, I'm asking you if you'd like it if I did,"

 

"I mean, I suppose so yes, but-"

 

"Then I can-"

 

"It's just that no one really bothers-"

 

"Am I _no one?_ " he challenged, his eyes flashing. His hand splayed over her waist, his eyes piercing hers with their intense stare.

 

With a confidence she didn't know she possessed, Molly made her gaze equal and replied, "No. You're too important for that."

 

There was a sudden thrum of tension that diminished the playfulness of mere minutes ago. What could have passed as a one night stand wasn't possible any more. They didn't even have the luxury of assuming the position of two people curiously testing the waters of a fresh relationship. Molly and Sherlock were years past a spark. They were a forest fire that refused to die. They were realizing they were in love and were absolutely terrified - seeking comfort in the only person who understood.

 

Sherlock leaned close, his breath tangling with hers, but not quite touching her mouth, as his fingers slid from her waist, tracing a way down until they touched her folds. She inhaled sharply at the feeling.

 

"No," she whispered, "Not now. I want you, I just want you, Sherlock."

 

His breathing was absolutely haggard. He nodded, and after a pause, he nodded again, as if he needed the time to actually register what she was asking of him. He pulled his arm away from her shoulders, and pushed himself up by his hands.

 

"Where'd you put the condom?" he asked.

 

"I- shit," Molly rolled over, smoothing out the wrinkles in the blankets until her hand finally hit the plastic. As she did, Sherlock flopped over on his back and shimmied out of his trousers rather ungracefully.

 

"Am I topping or-?"

 

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock shook his head, and tugged his prick out of his pants. He gave himself a few good strokes, and lifted his hips to toss off his underwear properly. He held out his hand to take the condom, and ripped open the wrapping. He was about to push it over his cock when Molly reached out, her fingers sliding underneath his to take control.

 

"You _roll_ it on, not push. It can rip that way," she told him.

 

"Can- gah, can it?"

 

His hands, reaching for her, had curled mid-air when she wrapped her thumb and index finger around the base of him. She rolled the condom all the way down, and smoothed it down with the ring of her fingers. She grinned at his reaction, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth.

 

"Mm hm," Molly confirmed, stroking him delicately, "You can't rush it."

 

"Right," he gritted out, probably not listening to a single word. She giggled, and straddled him. Still holding his prick, she pressed him against her entrance and slid down onto him. Sherlock's reaction was absolutely gorgeous. His hands found the top of her thighs and dug his nails into her skin, his neck stretched out as he tilted his head back.  The fire next to them threw fascinating shadows over his torso, following her hands as she let her palms roam over his chest.

 

"Beautiful," she whispered, and he keened. She leaned over, humming appreciately at the new angle the position made. She put her arm over him, and propped her chin up. Reaching out, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

 

"Good?" Molly asked. Sherlock kissed her in return, his arms holding her to him as he moved his hips. Her head tipped as they rocked together. She pressed a fluttery sigh to his jaw, feeling his hands slide down her back. Her breasts bounced, hitting his chest a little uncomfortably. With a wince, she pulled back, “Do you mind if we go slower?”

 

“Mm hm,” he hummed, “Like that?”

 

“Yeah,” she found the rhythm he was in, and began to move with him, “That’s so good, yes.”

 

Sherlock moaned, grabbing her hips. He was surprisingly responsive, all whimpers and grunts and whines, pawing at whatever he could get to. When he pushed his head back, panting in exertion, his eyes glowed with the fire, turning the colour a startling opaque. The ethereal gaze made Molly consider the sight before her. Some visceral part of her knew she’d seen this sight before, done this act before with this man, in some other lifetime - in _every_ other lifetime.

 

“Molly,” the man gasped out, “Molly, I’m-”

 

“Go on,” she encouraged softly, “Yes, _yes_ , oh-”

 

He thrusted hard into her, seemingly without control. The noise that slipped out of him was pitched high, entirely different than what she expected. Coming down from the climax, he kept his mouth clamped shut, as if he was embarrassed about the keening whines he made. Molly managed a smile through all her huffing, reaching out to push his hair away from his forehead.

 

“Amazing, you’re amazing-”

 

“I know, I know, you’re amazing-” he said, dazed. Molly managed a breathy laugh, and slowly slid off him, lying on her side.

 

“I said, _you_ were amazing, not me,” she giggled.

 

Sherlock’s face crinkled, his chest still heaving, “Doesn’t that mean the same thing?”

 

Molly kept chuckling, “Sure, whatever you'd like.”

 

“Stop giggling.”

 

“I’m not doing anything-”

 

“You’re _laughing_ at me,” he frowned, finally turning his head to look at her.

 

“Alright, a little bit. I’ll stop,” she promised.

 

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock sat up. He took off the condom, and got to his feet to toss it out. Like a lazy cat, Molly stretched out on the blankets, smiling contently. By the time Sherlock returned, a glass of water filled for her, she was already prepared to simply doze off. She had barely realized at all how tired she really was.

 

“I really am just-” she sniffed, trying to keep her eyes open as Sherlock settled back beside her, “Ready to sleep- we probably should talk about things but I can’t think of anything to say now…”

 

“I can think of a few…” Sherlock mumbled. Molly cracked open one eye, brow furrowing in response. He gave a weary sigh, and gathered her up into his arms. She grabbed the corner of the blanket and rolled it over her, trying to cover Sherlock as well.

 

“Yeah?” she asked, “What is it?”

 

Sherlock took a breath, and went off, “Everything is a puzzle, sex is nothing different. Factors are pieces, you put them together and it leads to something created. Arousal is in the pupils, the heart rate, the flow of blood, where it goes. Chemistry - and not in the sense of the cliche. Oxytocin, dopamine, prolactin - that one happens to be the reason why I can’t just enjoy this, it’s why I can’t just do this in the morning, because I know I won’t have the courage to do it otherwise. Because of an overwhelming rush of chemicals, I’m in a state that can be equated to being high - meaning I have access to things such as sentiment and love and-”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“I want to say this, I’m letting myself say this, I need you to let me too. Because if you won’t let me say this, I’ll keep it, keep it straight to my grave because I don’t want to say it to anyone else.”

 

With his back turned to the fire, Sherlock’s eyes were still glinting blue, sharp and glowing, far too intense to want to keep contact with, and far too intense to look away.

 

“I need to say this, because I’ve kept it away for too long. I convinced myself that it was to protect you, from Moriarty, from M-Magnussen, from all the others that wish to hurt me. I even convinced myself that you didn’t reciprocate any emotion akin to mine. Which goes to show how my emotions have hindered my genius when it comes to you,”

 

“Is that a compliment-?” Molly’s brow furrowed. Sherlock frowned in return.

 

“I don’t understand nearly as much as I pretend I do. I’ve only ever admitted that before once, and it was to you. Years ago, when I trusted you with my life. I don’t want to be your boyfriend, because the term has lost any weight it may have had. But I don’t want this night to be only for this night. Because I...I-I do. Fancy you, Molly,”

 

“Fancy me?” she repeated airily, her fingers fidgeting against the blanket corner she had curled into her fist.

 

“Yes. And I would like to clean up the flat with you after a party like this.”

 

“That’s what you took away from tonight?”

 

 _“Molly,”_ he said, his voice strained.

 

“I don’t understand… you want to be domestic? Is that it?”

 

“Well… yes.”

 

Molly nudged her head underneath his, fitting her round skull into the crook of his neck, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind that. I wouldn’t mind cleaning up with you… and buying groceries with you… and paying the bills with you… and-and-aaaaand-” She yawned, “maybe perhaps falling asleep with you…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sherlock took a moment to breathe.

 

“I ought to say this now, when everything is still affecting me-”

 

“Mm hm…”

 

“I won’t say it often. I’m not very good at it. Not even when I was a boy, I was very good at emotions then, but I still didn’t say it often. I’m often unlikable but… well, obviously you don’t seem to mind, in the long run.”

 

“Mmm…”

 

“Yes, right, you’re asleep… I love you, Molly.”

 

“... love you too.”

 

Before she fell asleep truly, she felt Sherlock’s hand settle in her hair.

 


End file.
